


An Idle Quest

by coloredink



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: John takes a while to catch on, M/M, Sherlock is mysterious, a blue rose
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-16
Updated: 2011-03-16
Packaged: 2017-10-17 00:32:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/171015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coloredink/pseuds/coloredink
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A strangely romantic gesture, coming from Sherlock: a marriage of science and symbolism.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Idle Quest

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [this kinkmeme prompt](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/5950.html?thread=25272126#t25272126), which requested Sherlock courting John.

"Are you doing anything tonight?" Sherlock asked.

John considered the question seriously. First: Sherlock never asked if John was busy. Sherlock said, "John, I have a case and your presence is required." Sherlock texted, _Paddington. 18:03 train to Liverpool_. Sherlock proclaimed, "Your date is over, John! The game is on!"

Which led to the second: If Sherlock was asking, then something was amiss. Possibly this was some kind of test. He looked up from his email and discovered that Sherlock was hovering about two feet behind his shoulder, hands behind his back, and looking. . . diffident? This was so new that John almost forgot to answer the question. "Er. No. Not really. Why?"

"I was wondering whether you'd like to join me for dinner," Sherlock said.

This was hardly unusual. John was always having dinner with Sherlock, often at far nicer restaurants than John would have been able to afford on his own. Sometimes he suspected Sherlock of solving cases for restauranteurs or budding restaranteurs solely for the ability to garner free food, but since Sherlock hardly ate, this seemed unlikely. But really, it was uncanny.

But Sherlock never _asked_ John to dinner. Normally, they'd be half-dead from hunger and fatigue somewhere--or rather, John would be half-dead from hunger and fatigue, and Sherlock would be thrumming with energy, head up and eyes bright--and Sherlock would take one look at John and say, "I know a place, it's not far," and within a half hour John would be wolfing down a plate so quickly he could hardly taste it. That, or Sherlock would say, "How do you feel about Indonesian?" in a tone of voice that indicated he didn't really care how John felt about Indonesian--which he liked, anyway--and John would abandon his meal halfway through because it turned out the Indonesian restaurant was the perfect vantage point for staking out the bank across the street.

"Is this for a case?" John asked.

"No," Sherlock said quickly. Too quickly? This whole conversation was so surreal John had trouble telling. "No case. Just dinner."

"We-ell," John said, "then I suppose yes. Yes, I'd like to join you for dinner."

Dinner was a Thai restaurant not too far from Baker Street; in fact, it was a restaurant they'd passed several times before, and once John had remarked that he'd like to try it. John, after several minutes of deliberation--everything looked good, after all--ordered the green catfish curry, and Sherlock, without even glancing at the menu, ordered pad see ew and then proceeded to fiddle with his chopsticks. This, too, was new; John had never seen Sherlock fidget.

"Something the matter?" he asked.

Sherlock drew a breath in through his nose. "No, no, not at all." He paused. "Have I ever told you about my first case?"

John's focus narrowed in on Sherlock, and it was like the rest of the restaurant fell away. He didn't even care if his food came anymore. John had never, through any amount of pleading or bribery, succeeded in getting Sherlock to tell him about any of his past cases. He wasn't sure if Sherlock enjoyed the secrecy, was merely lazy, or had actually "deleted" the cases. "Your first case?"

"Yes, well--I think of it that way. It was what put the whole consulting detective business in my head."

"When was this?" John asked, then held his breath; he could never tell when asking questions could cause Sherlock to expound at length or to fall silent.

"University," said Sherlock. "It began with a young man named Victor Trevor."

It was like something out of the adventure books that John had read when he was a boy: the chance meeting, the friendship, the invitation to stay for the summer, the riddle, the solution, the discovery of a century-old corpse in a long-forgotten cellar, and only a single piece of corroded, twisted metal to show what he'd been after. "Research showed the corpse was most likely Richard Brunton, a butler who'd gone missing from his employ during the late 19th century," Sherlock concluded. "If only I'd been born a hundred and fifty years earlier, I might have been able to deduce the location of the rest of the treasure. As it was, I was only able to ascertain that he must have had an accomplice, and it was this accomplice who likely left him to his doom and made off with the goods."

"Amazing," John breathed. He looked down and realised he'd eaten nearly half his food without realising it, he'd been so enraptured. And, he was pleased to note, Sherlock had actually eaten some of his own food as well.

Sherlock quirked a smile: faint, but real, and--John had since learned to tell--shyly pleased. "I thought you might like it."

\-----

 

"I don't remember the last time I've been so full," John moaned as the pair of them tottered their way back home. Well, John tottered; Sherlock was as suave and self-possessed as ever, hands in the pockets of his greatcoat.

It was true, though. John was forever leaving behind half-eaten pieces of toast, half-finished sandwiches, and still-warm plates of pasta. He couldn't remember the last time he'd had a meal so pleasant: not only had he been allowed to finish his (very good) food, they'd even ordered dessert, and Sherlock had told John about two of his past cases. _And_ Sherlock had finished nearly half of his own food, as well as nearly all of his mango pudding. (Sherlock had a predilection for sweets that John had only recently discovered, and was still pondering how to take advantage of this.)

"Mmmm," said Sherlock.

They walked back to 221b Baker Street in companionable silence, John rather unable to keep a smile off his face; he might have felt inclined to whistle, were he the whistling type. Sherlock, nearly shoulder-to-shoulder with John, radiated contentment as well, and John wondered what had Sherlock in such a good mood, that he'd taken John out to dinner for no discernible reason other than to regale him with stories of his past exploits. Well, Sherlock was quite often--almost always--capricious; John would enjoy it while it lasted. Maybe there was a triple murder on the horizon or something.

Sherlock paused on the front step. "John," he said, and now there was something new in his voice again, similar to when he'd asked if John were doing anything tonight. John peered up at Sherlock, and in the dim light of the streetlamps he thought Sherlock looked. . . pensive? Was that the right word for it?

"What?" asked John.

"Did you have a good time? At dinner?"

"Yes," John answered, surprised. "Yes, it was. . . good. It was excellent."

"Good." Sherlock nodded, paused, then nodded again and opened the door, and they went inside.

\-----

 

Eight days after the remarkably pleasant dinner, Sherlock brought John flowers.

More precisely, he stomped up the stairs and tossed a cellophane-wrapped cone roughly in John's direction, and it was only John's quick reflexes that prevented the flowers from landing in the (thankfully unlit) fireplace.

"What's this?" said John. "For a case?"

"No." Sherlock shrugged off his coat. "For you."

It was. . . well, it was a very unique arrangement. For one thing, it was remarkably violet: lilacs, and some sort of small, bell-shaped flower that John had never seen before, some artfully arranged oak leaves, and in the center, the bluest rose John had ever seen, neatly trimmed of all its thorns. To the rose was tied a card. Inside, in neatly flowing script (the florist, no doubt), it simply read, _in arduis fidelis_.

The sudden flood of warmth brought with it a smile to John's face. "Thank you. Um, is there any occasion?"

"Does there need to be one?" And Sherlock disappeared upstairs without further ado. John stayed where he was for a few moments more, looking at the flowers with a rather silly expression on his face, then went into the kitchen to find them some water.

\-----

Mrs. Hudson saw the flowers on the kitchen table the next morning ("Just did a spot of baking, and I can't eat so many scones all by myself, now can I?"), sitting in a pitcher of water with an aspirin at the bottom, and said, "Oh, and who're these from?"

"Sherlock, if you can believe it," John said through a mouthful of still-warm scone. "Oh my God, these are amazing."

"Old family recipe, you wouldn't get it out of me if you held a gun to my head," Mrs. Hudson replied serenely. "And don't talk with your mouth full. Rather unique arrangement, isn't it?"

"Very Sherlock," John agreed.

Mrs. Hudson continued peering at the flowers, clucking and chuckling to herself. "Lilacs? Bluebells? Oooo, and what a rose! Blue roses stand for mystery, you know."

"Mmmph?" John said, attempting not to talk with his mouth full.

"Well, the same way red roses stand for love, and white ones for purity. _You_ know."

John didn't, but it didn't surprise him in the least; trust Sherlock to pick a flower that had to do with mysteries.

\-----

A rather exciting case involving a murderous golddigger and some hired thugs occupied rather all of John's attention for the next several days, and the next time he could think about flowers they were sitting at the kitchen table, too exhausted even for tea. Sherlock's knuckles were freshly bloodied, but the bruise on his face was starting to go yellow; he was slumped so low in his chair it was a wonder he didn't slip right off onto the floor. John had recently shot a man in the knee. He propped one elbow up on the table, cupped his chin in his hand, and said, "Mrs. Hudson says blue roses stand for mystery."

"They do." Sherlock tipped his head back, exposing the long white column of his throat. "Blue roses do not exist in nature. Even genetic engineering has not yet succeeded in creating a 'true blue' rose, only ones more mauve or lilac in colour. Traditionally, blue roses," he nodded to the rose in the vase, which was still blooming beautifully, "have been created by dyeing white ones. Thus, they have come to be a symbol of the mysterious and unattainable." He closed his eyes, as if imparting all that (strangely irrelevant--had Sherlock once had a case involving floristry?) knowledge had exhausted him.

"Well," said John. "That makes sense." And, he thought, a strangely romantic gesture, coming from Sherlock: a marriage of science and symbolism. "What about the others, then?"

"What others?" Sherlock mumbled; it was possible he was going to fall asleep in his chair. John should probably make sure he got to bed, or at least to the couch.

"The other flowers," said John. "The lilacs. Bluebells. Do they mean anything?"

Sherlock shrugged. "They seemed to suit."

\-----

Two days after the flowers finally wilted and John threw them out, Sherlock said, "Would you care to accompany me to the symphony?"

John jerked, and the little bird he'd been carefully angling to launch straight into the pigs' fortress went off the screen with a forlorn squawk. "The what?"

"The concertmaster owed me a favour," Sherlock said. "I have two tickets for tonight at the Barbican." There was something familiar about his body language, and something slowly slid and clicked into place: _I was wondering whether you'd like to join me for dinner._

"Oh," said John. "Um. Sure?"

\----

It was quite possible John hadn't been to the symphony since he'd been in primary school. He remembered quite clearly being in the back of the balcony, the orchestra a tiny toy-set below. He also remembered being incredibly bored and getting into a slugging match with his sister, which was quite probably the true reason his parents had opted for balcony seats, rather than any sense of frugality.

Sherlock, of course, had two seats in the stalls, five rows away from the stage. He'd gone strangely quiet once they'd taken their seats, while otherwise around them was a low murmur of voices, people bending their faces close to one another's ears. John turned to Sherlock only to find that the man was sitting quietly, hands clasped and eyes closed. Seeing Sherlock so still was such an anomaly that John perhaps looked longer than he ought, and before he knew it the conductor was taking the stage, and the audience was applauding.

 _Then_ he remembered why he and Harry had taken to hitting one another. Maybe it meant John was uncultured, but he had just never really been into classical music. He'd tried, really, played the clarinet and all, and when he was sixteen and fancied Elizabeth, who was a first chair violinist, he'd memorised bits of facts about Elgar and Tchaikovsky and the Romantics and used them to impress her. Or tried, anyhow. He didn't know what was so Romantic about the Romantics and couldn't tell the Baroque apart from the truly Classical.

After five minutes he was bored stiff; the only moments of lightness came when the soloist lifted up her violin and spun out an amazingly charged series of--what did you call them? Arpeggios? Something-ios? Everything in music ended with an -io, didn't it? She was _stunning_ , anyhow; it reminded John a little bit of when Sherlock had a breakthrough on a case, the way his head snapped up and he'd breathe, _"Oh."_ How were some people so talented? John glanced at Sherlock, wondering how he felt about this, and then sucked in a breath.

Sherlock was--John was certain there were words to describe it. There had to be. He cast about for them. _Rapt_ was one word for it, yes, but that was only part of it. _Rapt_ described Sherlock's intense focus, the way his eyes never strayed from the stage, following her--her hands--as she swayed back and forth in time with the music. But that didn't describe the way his hands trembled, faintly, as they steepled over his chin; that didn't describe the brightness in his eyes, or the way his nostrils flared with each little too-quick breath.

The spell broke when the concerto ended, and Sherlock let his hands fall to his armrests. He glanced at John, who looked away, then quirked a half-smile. "You're bored," he observed. "We can leave, if you want."

John shook his head, but he didn't dare let his gaze stray to Sherlock again. "No," he said. "It's fine. Let's stay."

\-----

According to the program, Wagner's _Siegfried Idyll_ had been a birthday gift for his wife; she had woken to the strains of the violin floating down the stairs. Very romantic, John supposed, if you were into that sort of thing. He often woke to the same thing, although Sherlock's playing was usually more strident, and it was usually coming from downstairs.

The Idyll would probably have lulled John to sleep if he hadn't been able to watch Sherlock--covertly, of course, or as covert as one could manage around Sherlock Holmes. But for once, Sherlock didn't seem to be paying attention to his surroundings. Sherlock was actually _smiling_. He had one hand over his mouth, so that John couldn't see it properly, but there was no mistaking how his eyes crinkled at the corners. And there was that brightness again, a barely suppressed giddiness. Nobody who saw Sherlock like this could possibly think he was a psychopath, or a sociopath, or anything like that. But then, John had already known that Sherlock was capable of feeling.

Then the performance ended, and John quickly joined the audience in polite applause. He noticed that Sherlock never put his hands together, but rather just lifted his chin, as if his presence alone should be praise enough. Then began the shuffling round of chairs onstage, and the audience lifted itself almost as one for the intermission.

Sherlock brushed his fingers against John's shoulder. "Let's go."

"Er?" John glanced down at the program. "But there's still--"

"I am not so unobservant that I can't tell when the person next to me is on the verge of falling asleep, John," Sherlock said, not unkindly. "It's fine. Let's go."

John couldn't deny the chance of escape, especially so freely given, and he let out a great sigh as they stepped out into the city air. It was already quite dark, and John stuck his hands in his pockets. "Sorry about that."

"Not at all," said Sherlock, sounding unusually grave. "It was my error. I thought you might enjoy it."

John ducked his head. "I did! I just--well, I've just never really understood it, I suppose."

"Hmmm," said Sherlock, and made a sharp, peremptory gesture that John barely even caught a glimpse of. Magically, a cab pulled up beside them.

They spoke little on the ride home. Sherlock seemed preoccupied, chin sunken almost to his chest, eyes unfocused. John realised he was watching Sherlock again, and also realised that Sherlock must have known: after all, he'd noticed that John was bored. He felt the tips of his ears heat and looked out the window.

Sherlock paid the cab driver (?!), but once on the doorstep hesitated and said, "John."

John looked up questioningly.

"I was wondering if. . . that is. . ." Sherlock seemed to be having difficulty finding the right words, and John was abruptly reminded of Sherlock, pacing back and forth next to a swimming pool. But this was a muted version, less agitated. A little voice in John's head said, _This is what Sherlock Holmes looks like when he's nervous._ Finally, Sherlock produced a full sentence: "I'd like to play for you. The violin."

John turned the key in the lock so hard he was afraid he'd break it. "Oh. Um. You really don't have to, I know I don't have any appreciation--"

Sherlock blew out a breath. "I want to. Have you known me to do anything I didn't want to?"

That was true enough. "All right, but I don't promise I'll be able to stay awake," John said, weakly, and led the way upstairs. Sherlock went immediately for the violin, and set about tuning it, and rosining the bow, and the thousand other little rituals that musicians always seemed to have, while John made tea. Then he returned to the sitting room and settled himself in his chair, with every intent of being a polite audience for whatever had Sherlock's knickers in a twist now.

Sherlock launched immediately into a frenetic violin solo that John didn't recognise, and he realised that this had been an extremely bad idea.

He'd heard Sherlock play the violin before, lying on the couch, or upside-down in an armchair with his feet on the back, or sometimes while shut up in his room. Sometimes Sherlock would merely pluck the strings, and other times he would draw the bow across the strings in such a desultory fashion as to create the most awful scraping sounds. Rarely--and usually when John was just entertaining violent fantasies of braining Sherlock with his own violin--Sherlock would suddenly produce a beautiful melody, usually something that John recognised from a movie or television show, as if in apology.

But he had never heard Sherlock _play_ the _violin_ before. Not like this, every fibre of his being taut, every molecule focused on drawing sound out of wood and varnish and string. John felt flattened into his chair by the force of it, unable to find the strength to lift his teacup. Every note pinned him where he sat, a merciless cacophony of them, before suddenly tapering off into something more gentle, but no less precise and devastating. John suddenly knew this was what _breathtaking_ sounded like, and he hoped it didn't last too long, because he did need to breathe.

Then the melody changed again, into something oddly wistful. John hadn't known you could characterise music like that, but that was the only word he could think of to describe this one. And then Sherlock stopped. He looked at John, and John realised that was the first time Sherlock had made eye contact since he'd started playing.

"That was amazing," John said, aware that was the same tone of voice he used when Sherlock made one of his dizzying leaps of logic. "What was it?"

Sherlock's mouth quirked up in a smile. He turned his back to John and began to put the violin away. "Something I've been working on. It's not finished yet."

Well, that explained the sudden stop at the end. "Will you let me know, when it is?"

"Certainly," said Sherlock.

\-----

"I have an idea," said Sherlock.

"Uh oh," John replied, not looking up from his book.

It was two days since the violin concert, and John still felt a little funny around Sherlock. He had the feeling that Sherlock looked at him sometimes, speculatively, in the same way he looked at a dangerous package or an unidentified corpse, but when he turned his head Sherlock was always staring at the ceiling, or calibrating his microscope, or checking his website. Of course, then John would remember that _he_ had spent half a concert staring at his flatmate like some kind of besotted twit, and then he'd have to silently recite all the parts of the human skull, lest he go mad trying to figure out if a) Sherlock knew or b) Sherlock intended to act on his knowledge.

Sherlock knew, of course, because Sherlock knew everything. But what did Sherlock know? That John was (oh god) half-mad for his flatmate? _Was_ John half-mad for his flatmate? He really wasn't sure. He hadn't felt this way about any of the women he'd dated, and he wasn't sure what that meant.

If Sherlock knew, then why hadn't he said anything? Surely he wasn't sparing John's feelings.

Speaking of going spare. . .

"We are going on the London Eye," said Sherlock.

John wasn't sure what face he made, but it was probably not a complimentary one. "The _Eye_? That's for tourists!"

"No reason it can't also be for us," Sherlock said. He was already wrapping his blue scarf around his neck. "Up you get. The Eye closes soon. Winter hours."

"What on Earth would you want to see from the Eye?" John complained, even as he allowed Sherlock to manoeuvre him into his coat.

"I've heard the view is quite nice."

Someone working for the Eye--or perhaps EDF Energy itself, who knew--must have owed Sherlock a favour as well, because they progressed through the queue very rapidly and somehow had an entire capsule to themselves. Not that there were many people: it was the dead of winter, and John was fairly sure they were the last flight of the day before closing.

He had actually never been on the Eye. It was, after all, for tourists, and though he'd occasionally been curious, it never seemed worth the fifteen quid for a half hour ride in what was really just a giant ferris wheel. John blew out a breath, took a seat on one of the benches, and resolved to enjoy the experience. After all, Sherlock was paying for it. (Or not. John wasn't sure he'd seen any money change hands.) Sherlock himself was standing on the opposite side of the capsule from John, staring out the window.

The capsule swayed slightly, almost imperceptibly as they climbed. This was actually all right, John thought; the view was spectacular, the higher they got, and the capsule offered a 360 degree view. With no one else in the capsule, John was free to roam about and take in the view from different places, London laid out at his feet in all its glittering beauty, from the Palace of Westminster to Waterloo Station. All of it was beautiful, even the crazed, narrow streets never meant for automobiles, and the orange headlights crawling along the bridges, and, okay, even the stupid London Eye itself. His heart swelled with love for this city, and he wondered if this was what kept Sherlock here too, what sent Sherlock out to learn soil consistencies and traffic patterns, grinning despite--or perhaps because of--the perpetual drizzle.

The wheel creaked to a stop: they were at the top. Sherlock was suddenly very close beside John; if John turned his head, they'd probably touch.

"John," said Sherlock. John looked up at him and was reminded of that blue rose, the one that meant _mystery_ , and realised that he was an idiot.

"I'm an idiot," he said, and laughed, and Sherlock cracked a grin.

"Don't be offended," he said. "Nearly everyone is."

John's only response was to pull him down and kiss him, over and over again, while below them London stretched away in all its bright, endless glory.

**Author's Note:**

> [coloredink.tumblr.com](http://coloredink.tumblr.com/)
> 
> [sumiwrites.wordpress.com](https://sumiwrites.wordpress.com/) (if you wanna see the books I've written)


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